


One bullet, one shot

by Tiofrean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock and John living though, Sherlock wanted to help, ended up as always, or hasn't he?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:33:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reunion with a shooting and miserable John. Watch for your feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One bullet, one shot

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it just wanted to be written and I had to give it a go. It wouldn't leave me, seriously. 
> 
> I don't want to add too much tags not to destroy the story. Proceed with caution, but in my opinion it's not even in 10% as shocking as some of the fics here are. Just something that was nagging at the back of my mind. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock opened his eyes.   
  
Bright.  
  
It was so bright everywhere. He shut them down again, eyelids heavy and dropping. He listened carefully. Beeping. The heart rate monitor. Some voices in the background. Rattling of the wheels. Steps.   
  
Hospital.  
  
He was in the hospital. He tried to move his right hand. Not bad, he could shift it a little. He tried with the other – the same. He lolled his head to one side, then to the other. Slight stiffness and multiple tubes stopped him from doing a full turn.   
  
Why the hell was he in the hospital? A case? Maybe... no, that's not it. He didn't have a case. He called Lestrade in the evening, but they talked about something else... something important. Sherlock jolted, opening his eyes abruptly, the bright fluorescent light blinding him temporarily.   
  
_John._   
  
He blinked furiously, trying to clear his eyes from the involuntary tears that gathered to protect his eyes from the invasive light. He looked around, but he was alone in the room.   
  
John... where was John?   
  
\---  
  
The doctor walked into 221B Baker Street exactly a month later. With a slight hesitation he pushed the door to his former flat and stepped inside, eyes fixed on the tall figure standing by the window. John gently closed the door behind him and stepped forward, gaze still fixed on Sherlock.   
  
The detective turned his head slightly to the side, looking into the space.  
“What are you doing here?” The deep, low voice asked and John winced. The tone was harsh and cold, it made him shiver in an unpleasant way.   
“I... came to see how are you... doing... after what happened” John said slowly, coming a step closer and standing near his old armchair. He was almost sure that he heard a snort coming from Sherlock.  
  
“Took you long enough, _doctor_ ” the taller man spat, turning back to the window and staring through it. John couldn't tell if he was watching something in particular or just people in general. The sun was slowly setting and everyone was getting home...  
  
John cleared his throat awkwardly.   
“I'm sorry, I should have...” another snort interrupted him.   
“Please, don't bother. I know that you don't care. And it's fine, really. I didn't expect you to do so” he jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “If it's all then you should go now” he added coolly.  
  
John opened his mouth, then closed it again. What the hell happened with them, he mused for a moment. When he looked up, Sherlock was staring at him, eyes ice-cold, and John felt as if he had been pierced. He looked away, fixing his eyes on the desk next to the detective.   
  
“I came, because I wanted to know if you are alright” he said quietly. Sherlock barked out a quick laugh, turning a little and clapping his hands together.   
“Oh god! Isn't it brilliant?” He asked with a manic expression on his face, starting to pace back and forth in the small space.  
  
“The noble doctor, always so concerned about his friends, came to make sure that I was alright after month of not seeing me... Oh John, truly you are a gentleman! It's a miracle you bothered to remember my existence over the past month... why did you?” Sherlock paused, looking at John with glee in his eyes. John frowned, opening his mouth, but no sound came out.   
  
“Oh, I see! You need a flat-share again. Of course! Stupid, stupid!” The younger man scolded himself. He turned around to the window and started to pick at the window pane, his whole body shook with emotions John couldn't pick apart.  
  
“Why didn't you come earlier?” Sherlock whispered in a low murmur. It was loud enough for John to hear and the doctor closed his eyes.  
“You know why...” the older man answered equally low. Sherlock turned around abruptly and crossed the room in three quick strides, standing before John and glaring daggers at him.   
  
“Tell me this, _doctor_ , how much time does organizing a funeral take?” Sherlock hissed and continued to stare at John. “How much time does it take when you have the British Government to help you with it?” He lowered his head, his nose almost touching John's and it made the doctor shiver with something unpleasant.   
  
“Couldn't you find five minutes in your tight schedule to see if your friend was even _alive_?” The snarl at the end of the question made John's heart clench. The doctor cleared his throat.   
“Your brother told me you were alright” he said, shifting uncomfortably.   
  
“Mycroft told you what I wanted him to. I wanted to see you nonetheless. I called you, but you've never answered. I asked about you... Mycroft, Lestrade, the hospital stuff... Everyone. But you weren't there...” Sherlock backed away and sat in his armchair. He looked at John, eyes dark and wild, his gaze hanging somewhere in the thick air between them.   
  
“Why now?” The detective asked with a blank face.   
“I... Lestrade told me yesterday that you were shot, too. I didn't know anything about it. Greg said that Mycroft forbade him from telling me anything...” John moved to his old armchair, sitting on it carefully. Sherlock smirked at him.  
  
“And you didn't think to check on me after what happened? What a good doctor you are” he spat.  
“Sherlock... I lost my child!” John said with entirely too much force. “I... I lost my daughter... And you were there.... And Mycroft... he said you were fine. And I didn't know anything about the second shot. They told me there was only one bullet, but seemingly there were two... But I didn't know!” He almost shouted in a raised voice. He was breathing hard now, his heart overflown with emotions.   
  
He lost his daughter... He lost Elisabeth. And then, when Mary told him that Sherlock had been on the scene (and when Mycroft stated that he was _alright_ )... He also learned that Sherlock tried to bargain with the kidnapper. He tried to make a deal, Mary said. She was sitting there, tied to a chair and blindfolded. She heard a shot.   
  
Then silence.   
  
When the police came and untied her, she was able to see what happened. Her little daughter was killed by the bullet. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.   
  
“So, you have been furious with me?” The detective asked, when John told him this. The doctor nodded. “Furious that I couldn't save your daughter, or furious that I leaped out after the criminal, even though I had an open wound that was bleeding enough to leave a crimson trail behind me?” Sherlock hissed, standing up. John followed him with his eyes, trying to say something, but ended up opening and closing his mouth.   
  
“You may stay in your old room, if you want. Mrs. Hudson would love to see you in the morning” The taller man said in a carefully balanced tone. “Goodnight” he turned towards his bedroom, walking to the door slowly. He opened it and hesitated.   
  
“They told you the truth, you know?” He turned his head slightly to look at John. The doctor only raised his eyebrows. Sherlock sighed.   
  
“About the bullet. They told you the truth. One bullet. One shot” And with that he disappeared in his bedroom, leaving John to process this on his own.   
  
\---  
  
John didn't bother to go up to his old bedroom. He stayed in the living room, thinking.  
  
Mary told him that there was only one shot... that they fired when Sherlock's bargain-plan failed. She couldn't hear the whole conversation, because they moved away from her. She couldn't really see them either, for she had a thick scarf tied around her head. Before the kidnappers tied her up, they told her the reason.   
  
They wanted to hurt Sherlock.   
  
And by hurting Sherlock they meant hurting John and rendering the detective helpless against it.  
  
There was a muffled yelp, sounds of struggling, and one single shot. Then the world went silent, and only when the police arrived Mary could see what really happened.   
  
They met in the hospital where Mary was helplessly crying over their daughter. The paramedics couldn't do anything, it was too late and the bullet hit Elisabeth in the head. John spent the night in the hospital, filling papers and holding his wife, wishing his life was different.   
  
Wishing he hadn't ever met Sherlock.   
  
Mycroft came to the hospital some time after they arrived there. John didn't even ask him about the detective, the older Holmes told everything himself.   
  
Sherlock was on the scene. He tried to bargain with the criminals, but failed miserably. When one of them fired, Sherlock, according to Mycroft, leaped after him and chased him through the streets for almost ten minutes. He got him, knocked him out cold and called the police.   
  
According to Mycroft, Sherlock was fine.   
  
John didn't know that he was in the hospital. He didn't know what happened, aside from what the detective's brother told him. He thought that if Sherlock didn't come to see him in the hospital, especially after his genial plan had failed, he didn't want to see the younger man either.   
  
They got home. Mary, still crying, threw him a deadly-cold glance and said that if not for Sherlock, their child would probably be alive. If not for him they would never get kidnapped.   
  
John didn't correct her that if not for Sherlock they wouldn't have met at all, because John would have committed suicide long time ago.   
  
A week later, Mary told John that she doesn't want to see him.   
  
Two weeks later she filed papers for divorce.   
  
And now John was here, with his marriage broken, with his daughter dead, sitting in his former flat-mate's living room, wondering when his life got so complicated.   
  
\---  
  
After a few hours of thinking, John decided that he should go and at least try to sleep. He considered going to his current apartment, but he really wanted to see Mrs. Hudson in the morning. He got up and started to make his way upstairs, when he heard a shout and a rustle of fabric.   
  
He turned around, curious, and was greeted with another sharp cry. It came from Sherlock's bedroom, and it made John feel uneasy. He didn't want to pry, but he didn't want to leave Sherlock to himself neither. Besides, god knows what was going on with the detective. John waited a few moments more, but when the cries only intensified, he made up his mind and went to the room.   
  
When he pushed the door he was faced with a sight of Sherlock, still seemingly asleep, fighting with his duvet, mumbling something incoherently. The doctor walked a few steps to the bed and gripped the younger man's shoulder, squeezing it gently.   
  
The detective jolted and opened his eyes looking at John quizzically, eyes blinking rapidly and face pale.   
“Hey, alright?” John asked, still standing beside the bed, outstretched hand resting on the younger man's shoulder.   
“Perfectly fine” Sherlock spat, shrugging off his hand and turned around showing John his back.   
  
The detective was sleeping shirtless and the abrupt movement caused the duvet to slip from his lower back to his hips, revealing a single red scar, just under his lower right ribs. John gasped at this.  
  
The moment Sherlock heard the noise he realized his mistake and tugged the covers higher, huffing out an irritated sound. But the damage was done, and now John had seen where he was shot. He waited quietly, almost hearing how John tried to piece everything together.   
  
Sherlock knew that he lacked one piece of the puzzle... And the puzzle would reveal the whole truth.   
  
The detective shivered, thinking his actions and choices through again. At first he didn't want John to ever know about this. He was bargaining with the criminals, true. And his plan didn't fail in every aspect, to be honest...   
  
Maybe if he told John the truth, the doctor would forgive him? Maybe he would see that the detective tried... Maybe...  
  
Maybe...   
  
Sherlock almost jumped when a hand gripped the covers surrounding his back. John clutched them tightly and forcefully tugged them down, exposing the pale skin with one, single, freshly healed scar.   
  
“Is that...?” The doctor asked, carefully running his fingertips over the puckered flesh. It was still red and tender, obviously just recently healed.   
“Leave me alone, doctor” Sherlock grumbled, but made no attempt to shrug him off, so John continued his observation.   
  
“Sherlock... this wound is small...” John whispered, backing his hand finally and looking at the detective's head. Sherlock was still facing away, but the doctor could see him nod slightly.   
  
“You said that there was one shot...”  
“Then you clearly are too stupid to deduce the most obvious things!” Sherlock abruptly turned around, yelling the words at the startled doctor and uncovering his torso. John looked to where the duvet fell down and felt his mind stop to a halt.   
  
There, in a perfectly mirrored position between Sherlock's abdomen and chest was a large exit wound's scar - red, with shattered edges and signs of healed infection.   
  
John shifted his gaze to look the detective into his eyes. Sherlock had a haunted, manic look, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, his whole body seemed to vibrate.   
  
“Yes! I have been shot, yes the bullet went through!” Sherlock shouted at him, covering himself in the duvet again. John could only look at him, mouth open.   
  
“Sherlock... wh... WHAT?” John demanded. The detective curled up, knees brought tightly to his chest.  
“I went there to save them, don't you see? I wanted... I wanted to persuade that bastard to let them go... to take me instead...” Sherlock looked up and John could see that his lips were trembling slightly.   
  
“I tried to reason with him... It didn't work. But, he said that if I want, I could cover one of the two of them. He will shoot either Mary or Elisabeth and I was to guess which one...” Sherlock looked down again.   
  
The doctor could clearly see how much he was trembling, the hand that was gripping the duvet went white with the force of the fingers squeezing the material.   
  
“He... he was standing behind me, forbade me from turning around. He said that his gun is pointed and that I have one second to cover one of them...” The detective swallowed, looking to his left, gaze fixed on the wardrobe.   
  
“I ran to Elisabeth... He thought that I assumed he won't shoot a child... I knew that he would. I... I heard the shot just when I caught her...” Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed nervously.   
“I looked down, there was blood... But I thought that it was just my blood. I ran after him, caught him in an alley... Only when he jabbed his elbow into my chest I felt that I was seriously wounded... I managed to hit him hard enough to knock him out and phoned Lestrade... I woke up in the hospital” the detective sighed and turned to his side, his body still curled up.   
  
“I woke up and you weren't there, John... I thought that maybe you wandered out for a moment, but... I waited. I... Lestrade came, told me that the bullet went through me and hit Elisabeth... I couldn't believe that she died. I asked for you, I called you on the phone... I wanted to see you, to talk to you... to explain...” Sherlock winced and pulled away when he felt John's hand placed on his shoulder. The mattress behind him dipped as the doctor lowered himself onto it.   
  
“I'm sorry... I didn't know” John whispered in a broken tone. It was all so wrong...   
  
John winced when he pictured Sherlock, bleeding from the shot, running after that bastard... The doctor felt cold just imagining it.   
  
“You should have been there...” the taller man whispered. “You should have been on the scene, but neither I nor Lestrade didn't have enough time to call you in. You should have been at the hospital, too...”   
  
John shivered. Sherlock put himself in the line of the bullet just to save his daughter. He could have been shot on the scene, he could have bled out in that dark alley.   
  
John should have been there...  
  
The doctor looked at the bundled up covers and felt his heart breaking anew. He had been in so much pain after loosing Elisabeth that he couldn't think straight. He should have come to the hospital and see Sherlock.   
  
“Tell me what to do, Sherlock” John asked in a low whisper. The detective shifted under he covers, but didn't say anything. The doctor leaned down and wrapped one hand around him, lying down on the bed and pressing his chest to the detective's back.   
  
“I don't know” came the honest answer from under the duvet. Sherlock turned around and looked the smaller man in the eyes. John could feel his breath hitch when he realized that the detective had been crying. He unwrapped his arm from around the lanky man, bringing it up and brushing away the tears.   
  
“I'm sorry, Sherlock... I didn't know any of this... No one told me...”  
The detective just nodded, closing his eyes and leaning into the soft caress on his cheek. John's hand was so warm... so comforting.   
  
“Tell me what to do...” John whispered once again, leaning forward and hugging his friend tightly. He realized in this second that he had nobody else in the world. His daughter dead, his wife running away from him. He didn't have friends, not ones that he was close to... Only Sherlock.  
  
Always Sherlock.   
  
“Just stay, John” came a quiet answer. “Stay here, with me...”   
  
Stay tonight.  
  
Stay tomorrow.

  
Stay forever. 

  
And John stayed, hugging the detective tightly and trying to find the point where they left off.


End file.
